Twin Blades
by Taluliaka
Summary: What if Lancelot never died at the Battle of Badon's Hill? What if it wasn't, after all, his fate? They who are no longer bound to Arthur may choose their own destiny. ON HIATUS


_Ah, yes, King Arthur. Nice movie. And I am, of course, a Lancelot fan. I mean, who isn't? So I have started a fic about him and the others. Hooray!_

_Welcome to:_

**Twin Blades**

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own it. There, happy? You better be. Coz I'm not._

_This is the introductory chapter, which corrects the last scenes of the movie as they should have been:_

**Chapter 1: Not Your Fate**

Arthur looked down upon Cerdic, lying dead at his feet and then at the bodies lying all around. This truly was a place of death. He shuddered and turned, moving slowly and sadly towards the crumpled heap that was Tristran. He heard a sad cry from high above and lifted his head to the smoke- hazed sky to see Tristran's eagle floating high above. She wheeled for a moment before soaring onwards up into the clear air.

Arthur turned and looked through the haze of smoke that was once the wall of flame to separate the army into two. He suddenly saw Guinevere, dark with blood and felt his heart jolt as she slumped beside a barely distinguishable form. No, it couldn't be… He didn't know how he managed to get there so fast but he was there, gazing down on his greatest friend's silent body. Horror froze his limbs and he sank to his knees, touching Lancelot's curly head, looking for life. But there was none.

In an agony of pain, Arthur lifted his face to the heavens and cried to his silent God, 'It was my life to be taken, not this! Never this!' His cry faded away into the bleak silence, as he turned his head to Guinevere. She was staring at him strangely, surprised at what he had just said. No, no one had known of his plea that night in the stable, before all this began. Just Lancelot. All his grief returned tenfold and the pain of failure gnawed at his heart.

He felt rather than heard the approach of his other knights. Bors was carrying Tristran, lying him down beside them and turning to stare in disbelief at Lancelot's body. Gawain and Galahad stared too, numb and injured, too tired to speak. They watched Arthur as his body quivered. His broken tones brought them sharply back to the present. 'My brave knights, I have failed you.' The silence was more painful than words and Guinevere shivered as she listened, staring at the arrow deep in Lancelot's chest, at his pale face. 'I have neither taken you from this island…nor shared your fate.' Arthur was breaking at this point. They were all so silent….

Arthur got unsteadily to his feet and moved away across the battlefield, away from his silent knights, the pain threatening to drag him down with every step. The knights moved away too, each meshed in their own silent grief. Guinevere was staring at Lancelot intently, at the shaft that had killed him. Surely that was too far right to have hit the heart. Slowly she touched his armour. It was cold. Even if his heart was beating, she wouldn't be able to feel it through the steel that had not protected him at the end. She was wasting her time, anyway. He was dead. Guinevere got up to move away, cursing her inability to cope with death, when a sound turned her head.

A gasping cry, faint and pained, flitted to her ears. Could it be one of the wounded? She looked around doubtfully but all of the bodies were silent. Someone further away? Could a cry carry that far? Another cry came, followed by rasping breathing, catching with barely concealed exclamations of pain. She turned back to Lancelot's body, eyes wide and saw him move. She stood stiffly, unable to move. Another movement confirmed he was not dead and the weight of that knowledge drove her, almost crawling with shock, to his side. She stared at him, shaking.

His face was no longer calm and peaceful, it was screwed up with pain. His hands jerked. She touched his face softly and his eyes snapped open, making her jerk with surprise and draw back. His eyes, dark as ever, were glazed over with pain and he stared through her in confusion, blinking desperately. Guinevere was rooted to the spot, staring into his eyes, until his hand went to the arrow wound. Swiftly, she grabbed it, forcing it back towards her as his body writhed in agony from the pain it must have been causing him. His eyes closed and opened again, this time clear. He saw her face in a blurry haze and groaned the only word he could utter through the spasms, 'Arthur…' Then she was calling desperately to the knights, to Arthur, to anyone who would listen. Her cries echoed across the plains, turning people's heads as a new day dawned.

Arthur heard Guinevere's cries as he walked amongst the bodies. He whirled as she did, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to fight. She was calling to him, waving her arms. There appeared to be no apparent danger and Arthur stared in confusion at her. She called to his surviving knights as well, saying something he couldn't quite catch. They moved swiftly towards her, as she turned and fell back on her knees next to the spot where Lancelot lay. He began to shake as they gathered around his friend's body. He began to run, as fast as he could, back to them. When he got close enough to hear their talk, Gawain turned to him in wonder. 'Lancelot lives.' Pushing past him, Arthur collapsed next to his friend, watching closely. Lancelot moved slightly, wincing in pain. His eyes drifted open, dark with pain and closed again. Arthur, who at any other time would have sent thankful prayers to God, instead unleashed the force of grief which had crushed him since the battle ended and wept, but they were tears of joy.

Bors spoke for the first time since their captain's reunion with his closest friend, saying, 'We have to get the arrow out and take off his armour. It's the only way we can see the damage.' These words seemed to finally strike Arthur and he nodded. 'Should we wake him?' Guinevere asked. Arthur shook his head. 'We must hold him down.' The knights took their places, holding down Lancelot's shoulders, arms and legs, while Guinevere stationed herself behind Lancelot, supporting his head. Arthur looked around. 'Ready?'

They all nodded, silent. Taking a deep breath, Arthur pulled the arrow out. A distinct snap was heard and Lancelot cried out in pain, straining to get up. His initial strength surprised his companions but it swiftly died away, leaving him weak and shaking. Arthur swore as he realized the head had not come out, along with about an inch of the wooden shaft. Swiftly he removed Lancelot's breastplate, tossing the shaft of the arrow behind him. Arthur moved his tunic slowly up and over, trying not to snag it on the bit of splintered shaft that still poked out from the skin. The wound was deep and it was bleeding seriously.

Arthur did not know how to get the head out and no one had ever had such a wound, so his knights were as much in the dark as he. But Guinevere placed Lancelot's head slowly down and brushed him aside. 'Give me a dagger.' Gawain passed his over, raising an eyebrow. Guinevere placed one hand on the shaft and readied herself. Arthur had taken her place at Lancelot's head, who was now slightly awake, bare chested, and watching her from half-lidded eyes.

Then she dug down directly beside the shaft and sideways, hoping to dig beneath the head and wrenching a moan from Lancelot, who had closed his eyes. 'I'm sorry,' she breathed before twisting the blade in his flesh. She heard Lancelot choke back a scream and silently pleaded for forgiveness. She moved the flat of the knife back further up and was rewarded by the head's tip, now resting on the knife. Then she levered the tip back out and, twisting the knife back the other way, eased it out. She then looked desperately at Lancelot, who lay still, his breathing harsh and shaking. Lifting her head, she saw the knights staring at her.

'Where did you learn that?' Galahad asked softly. Guinevere looked back at the bloody knife in her hand and felt a bit sick. 'It's an old Woad trick. I've seen it used before, once or twice. They survived.' He nodded in understanding and she took a shaky breath. 'We will need to stop the bleeding. Do we have bandages?' Arthur shook his head slowly. 'We do not carry them with us. The closest would be on the convoy of coaches and they should be hours away by now.'

She nodded and then started ripping strips of leather from her clothing. 'Send someone after them. These should hold the wound until they come back.' Binding the wound, not hearing the issued orders from around her, Guinevere shivered. If that hadn't worked… Lancelot was unconscious, his skin pale and rigid pain still radiating from his stance. His breathing was growing harsher and Guinevere knew that, unless the bandages came, Lancelot would die. 'Shouldn't we move back to the fort?' Arthur had returned. 'No. We could not move him, in his state. And I'm sure the fort have their own number of injured. If he survives tonight… we'll move him.'

She didn't know how long she sat there, staring at the man who had saved her life and in return, got a crossbow bolt through his chest. Why had he saved her, jumping through the flames like an avenging god, while only a few nights ago he had told her he would have left Lucian and herself to die? A chill wind blew across the battlefield, stirring the clothing of her fallen people and ruffling the knight's cloaks as they sat around a flickering fire, awaiting the return of Galahad who had set off in pursuit of the carriages. She checked the leather bonds she had placed about the wound. They were soaked through and would soon be no more use to the fallen knight. She tore another strip from her pants and tightened it about the wound, leaving her fingers upon his flesh to feel the comforting beat of his heart.

Guinevere then stood, looking off into the dusk, watching for Galahad's return. Cool stars glimmered above, crowning the sky in a wreath of glory. She closed her eyes briefly, the weariness of the battle sinking into her bones. The Woads had retreated to the forest for the night, her father among them. Tomorrow they would start the burials for their brave warriors. Tristran, the lone wolf archer who had fallen to Cerdic the Saxon leader, would be taken back to Hadrian's Wall to be buried in the Sarmatian graveyard. Hopefully, Lancelot would not share that fate. There had been too much death already.

Some instinct made her look back to her charge and she saw his eyes were open, black as onyx, the cold, distant stars reflected in them. He stared at the sky, barely noticing when Guinevere bent over him, touching his forehead. 'Lancelot.' She called his name, hoping he would turn and see her or respond. She touched him again and left her hand there, feeling a sick heat rolling off him. 'Arthur.' She called fearfully. She felt him come to stand next to her, the brush of his cloak drifting across her arm, light as air itself. 'How is he?' Arthur was looking in concern at his friend, whose eyes still stared blankly at the skies. 'He burns. He does not seem to hear me when I call him.' Lancelot turned his head from her touch, murmuring something in his delirium, his face troubled and his eyes glazed. 'It is the blood loss. He must get those bandages soon or we may lose him.'

Arthur sighed, calling Lancelot as he bent over. For a second there was silence, then his eyes opened again, dark with confusion and pain. Arthur spoke softly, calling the troubled eyes of his greatest friend to his face. 'Lancelot, you must hold on. This was not your battle, not your time. You told me in the stable, a battle of your own choosing. Please do not make me burn you, not now.' For a moment, a spark of understanding beyond Guinevere's knowledge came between them and Lancelot nodded. When he spoke, his voice was just a whisper of what it had once been and the cocky, confident tone was absent. 'I'll try. But I thought I'd already made my choice.' Guinevere moved away, giving the two friends privacy.

'You didn't see her Arthur. I was the only one who saw her fall. I saved her…for you. Not for bloody Rome, or the other knights, or even for freedom...it was for you. You didn't need any more heartache.' Arthur smiled in gratitude. 'Thank you, my friend. But your time is not yet, you understand? I'll not have you die here, like Tristran.'

'Tristran fell?' Lancelot hadn't known this and a wave of mourning swept through him. 'Yes, he died fighting Cerdic, the leader.'

Lancelot shifted slightly and winced, biting back the cry that longed to burst from him. 'Hang on, Galahad's coming. Do not leave us Lancelot. You will not die, not after all of this!'

The blackness took him again, despite his friend's calls and support. Try as he might, Arthur could take none of his suffering away, to bear his friend's pain himself. Lancelot spared him a brief smile through the rushing in his ears and the white hot spark of pain in his chest before giving into the dark. Gasping, Arthur placed a hand to Lancelot's chest, feeling desperately for his heartbeat. His frantic fingers soon found the steady beat and he sighed in relief. That had scared him more than he could ever know. Taking off his blood red cloak, he laid it across his injured knight and moved back to the fire, listening hard for the sound of hooves that would signal Lancelot's salvation.

It seemed hours passed. Lancelot had not moved from under Arthur's cloak, with its vivid red colour that seemed to bode ill to the rest of the gathered, silent men who stared into the fire. If one of them looked over at their fellow knight after staring into the flames, it seemed the cloak was Lancelot's body, coated with blood. Then, shivering, they would turn back to the fire, seeking something far away in its bright depths.

It was Guinevere, though, who heard the hooves of Galahad's steed before any of the others. She was by the young man's side before his horse was pulled to a halt. Galahad tossed her the bandages swiftly and she was gone, melting into the shadows back towards where Lancelot lay. 'Arthur,' she called. 'Come help me put these on.' The Roman was there before she'd even finished speaking. They both moved back to Lancelot. He was sleeping, the fine lines of his face hollow and sharp-edged as it reflected the firelight. Slowly lifting his tunic, she unwrapped the blood-soaked strips of leather and wrapped the bandages around his chest, binding it tightly and wrenching a slight gasp from her patient. She looked up at his face but he merely shifted slightly, his expression troubled and didn't move again.

The night drifted on, the moon turning her face from the huddled group and drifting slowly on high, passing through a sea of distant stars.

_So there we are! I have corrected all the psychological and mental damage done by that last scene. Next chapter we move on several years…_

_So review, people, tell me what you think!_

_By the way, is anyone else angry about the fact only the Director's Cut of King Arthur came out on DVD? I mean, the reason we want to buy the damn movie is because we liked what we saw in the cinema, not what the director liked. Anyway, that wasn't half as funny!_

_Until next time,_

_**Taluliaka**_


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